Let Everything Else Fade Away
by thissuperficialhypocrisy
Summary: "His dreams were the definition of perfect - And if Kurt could have it any other way, he would never wake up." ;; The only haven he has in this town, away from his tormentors and his life, is in his dreams.


**Because there was a thing going around on tumblr the other day saying "Imagine if Kurt woke up and it was all a dream"**** and a drabble turned into a one-shot. Yep. Not entirely sure about this one (it seems a bit…messy? If that makes any sense, haha) but I decided to put it up anyway.**

**Title's from "Focus" by Emma's Imagination. Hinted(?) Klaine towards the end. Lots of angst.**

**Constructive criticism would be lovely. c:**

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><p>Kurt lived for his dreams.<p>

They were the only hope he had left - he was stuck in a small town populated by hypocrites and bigots; a place where dreams withered and died before they could properly flourish. It was, of course, how his parent's lives turned out to be – a long gone mother held back by her peers and a father who wanted a son who was _good_ at sports and would bring a _girl_ home and was capable of _keeping_ friends and who was pretty fucking _perfect_ in general_._

It wasn't as if he was terrible at everything he did (Kurt Hummel was more than a second class, two-dimensional dimwit, thank you very much.) He held the best grades in his year, along with a killer voice and a wardrobe to match his somewhat bitchy attitude. But his dreams consisted of staying at the top and having people love him for what he could do and who he could be instead of everyone loathing his existence for who he would fall in love with and who he could tear down with his sarcastic comebacks. He wanted to be so much more than this _stupid_ town and its _stupid_ inhabitants with their _stupid_ beliefs they inherited from their _stupid_ ancestors, and this town wouldn't allow it.

McKinley High was another reminder of why he couldn't achieve his dreams – it was a taster of the real world, he thought with a grimace and a wince – it was as if with every step he took his peers would be looking at him with disgust, harsh insults muttered under their breath or spoken with a snarl and repugnant hands shoving him with haste.

He would be making his way to class and the sensation of someone dousing him in ice cold water would hit him at the speed of light and with a weight that resembled a twelve tonne truck. His taste buds would begin salivating as the varying taste of the substance ended up inside his wide, unprepared mouth and eyes watering in searing pain when the mixture began to liquidise and seep through clenched eyelids that were delayed in closing due to shock. The only sounds that could be heard consisted of bellowing laughter and the slapping of hands as they congratulated each other on giving the local 'princess' his daily slushie facial.

Then he would be sitting in class, copying down notes from the board or trying to pay attention to the teacher's never ending drone when he would feel it on the back of his head - a small wad of paper encased in a shell of saliva, cool to the touch and plastered on his hair - and as he reached around to touch the back of his head and pull what he could of the pulp out of his hair the class would break out into snickering and slurs. He would grimace at the remainder of the spitball that lay at the tips of his fingers, a shiver crackling throughout him when saliva began to practically ooze a trail its way down his fingers at a snail's pace.

At lunch he would eat by himself in the library as the librarian looked at him with pity-filled eyes that made his stomach churn with anxiety, and the rest of the day would be filled with homophobic slanders and the occasional 'accidental' collision that would blemish his porcelain skin with grotesque bruises, sometimes even leaving scars and rarely causing bones to break with a sickening crunch. The day would be topped off with a dumpster toss that left his clothes looking in a less than satisfactory state and him feeling like this was never going to end.

Upon reaching his house, Kurt would be hoping that his father would notice the change of clothes and how the air around him would reek of rotting garbage instead of his usual musky scent, or how he would wince when his arm made contact with the front door and he stumbled into the living room. Instead he was met with the back of a balding head and a grunt as he croaked a small "hello", the sports channel blaring angrily in the background and his father's chubby fingers clenching and unclenching possessively around the base of the ice cold bottle of beer in his hand like it was a lifeline. It would be with a resounding sigh that Kurt would make his way to the kitchen and fix them up something to eat (even if his father couldn't fully accept him for who he was, he wasn't going to stop _caring_ about him) before trudging slowly towards his bedroom situated the basement.

Sliding out the first aid kit he kept hidden under his bed, the countertenor would begin the tedious task of 'fixing' himself, thinking over the events of that day and pondering his future as he rubbed various ointments over fresh and fading bruises. He would remind himself of how things would change - How he would become bigger than anyone else in this town (_wince_); how his father would no longer have to keep up the pretence of caring for his gay son (_flinch_); how everyone would be so much fucking happier if he wasn't plaguing their children's oh-so-innocent minds (_quiver_).

He would throw the kit under the bed, passing the time by doing homework and carrying out his complicated moisturizing routine (because even the most 'worthless' of people have no excuse for not keeping their skin flawless, he reminded himself constantly) humming softly to himself so his thoughts wouldn't stray. When he was finished critiquing himself (boring blue eyes with bags protruding from his somewhat translucent skin; thin, pale lips that were heavily chapped and consistently gnawed on; a light sprinkling of freckles that had been dusted over his crooked nose; greasy locks the shade of burnt toffee and the texture of straw) he slid into his bed and closed his eyes, where he would fall into a deep slumber.

There was one thing Kurt Hummel always kept to himself - his dreams at night. Images of what he wanted flashed in his mind like a movie when he finally lulled himself to sleep; the same images every night that would plague his mind when he had to get up in the morning and would somehow give him the smallest bit of courage he needed to get through the day.

He was still stuck in a small town populated by hypocrites and bigots; a place where dreams withered and died before they could properly flourish, and his long gone mother had still been held down by her peers. He still walked down the hallways of McKinley High with vicious words being thrown at him and him being thrown at lockers in turn.

But he wasn't alone.

He had friends – yes, _actual _friends – that stuck up for him and went through the same turmoil as him. He was a part of the Glee club, where he was acknowleged and his voice soared higher than anyone else's. Although he was still gay (and proud of it, he'll have you know) his father accepted him one-hundred percent, often threatening the school when he felt like his son was being unfairly discriminated. He also had a step mother and brother (that cute guy in his gym class, he realised after a month of the dream on loop) who appreciated who he was and what he could do. His dreams of staying at the top and having people love him for what he could do and who he could be instead of everyone loathing his existence for who he would fall in love with and who he could tear down with his sarcastic comebacks were a reality.

Then there was his favourite part – he also had a _boyfriend_. A boyfriend, he noted, with curly raven hued locks that were held back by a thick helmet of gel, his heart shaped face holding the most gorgeous hazel eyes that could make anyone swoon with just a glance and a toothy grin that could go on for miles. He, too, had an impeccable taste in fashion and music, and they could talk for hours about anything and everything. When Kurt was feeling down, he would gather him up in his arms and simply hold him; When he was feeling particularly self-conscious about what he was wearing or how he was looking, he would look him straight in the eyes and tell him that he was beautiful; When they went out together, they weren't afraid to tell the world that they were together and there was nothing anyone could do about it. Not only was he good at making Kurt feel better about himself, but he was also good at many_ other_ things. He was the definition of perfect, in Kurt's mind - his _dreams_ were the definition of perfect.

And if Kurt could have it any other way, he would _never_ wake up.


End file.
